


never look away

by Barrhorn



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8788057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barrhorn/pseuds/Barrhorn
Summary: In which Angela gets a cybernetic spinal implant as part of her Valkyrie suit, Fareeha has a prosthetic arm, and there's a lot of fluff.Chapter 1 is heavily focused on Angela, Chapter 2 is mostly relationship stuff!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired heavily by this post:
> 
> https://patternedclouds.tumblr.com/post/153553625035/ok-yes-amputee-pharah-is-an-excellent-concept-but
> 
> by patternedclouds/lightboundhero @tumblr, who graciously gave me permission to play around with the idea. Thank you!

It isn’t a conscious decision, not at first. Angela knows, within just a few missions after joining Overwatch, that she needs a different setup for fieldwork. She’s not able to run everywhere, to be everywhere, and secretly she’s afraid that she’s just not cut out for battle, with her ears ringing from gunfire and explosions and hearing people scream for her or just in pain. She needs to be able to move more freely, needs to be visible on the battlefield so that those who need her assistance can find her and come to her - if they’re able.

(If it makes her more visible to the enemy, if it makes her more of a target, then it will still be worth it, she thinks.)

Thus the idea of the Valkyrie suit is born, and it’s a night of inspiration and racing thoughts, sketched designs and scribbled notes in margins, looking up after what feels like minutes and discovering it’s past four AM. It’s a good plan, she thinks, skimming through the pages. Light armor for freedom of movement instead of the bulky padded armor she’s been wearing. The angel (Valkyrie, the fierceness, a warrior as well as protector) motif, instantly recognizable on the field, even to civilians that might not know her, that might not share any of her languages. And of course, an angel needs wings, but why have something on there that’s just decorative when it can be functional as well? Wings bring to mind flight and speed and swiftness and that’s exactly what she needs, so all it’ll take is a way to control them-

She pauses for a moment, fingers brushing over the scribbled out ideas of hand controls, discarded for being too clunky and too likely to fail. What she has written and then circled several times is this note: “Spinal implant; electrodes in the muscles for full control and instant response. Nanite infusion for better response and less chance of rejection. Possible healing application?”

Angela hadn’t really thought about it in the heat of the moment. She’d been too busy visualizing the whole suit and how it would all come together to always consider the reality of the user. Herself. For this to work she’ll have to have a spinal implant, a procedure she’s done a hundred times for others. Never something quite like this, however. Never intending control of something outside the range of a normal human body. Never implanting her nanites in this fashion, making them a permanent fixture of a person’s physiology. She doesn’t know how they’ll react to such extended exposure to a person, what potential side effects to even look for.

She knows instantly that she cannot test it on anyone but herself. Not that she even has time to test it; not really, not like she should. She should, by all accounts, write the proposal, make up prototypes of various scales and implant them into rats and monkeys and wait, observe, record. Complications could take _years_ to manifest.

Angela doesn’t have years. She has at most days between missions. This will help her save lives now; those who are injured in the line of duty do not have time to wait for her to ensure her own safety. She asks herself: is it worth the risk to myself? And the answer is there immediately: yes.

She does pause to consider and reflect, but always that word is there, sibilant under her skin, thrumming through her veins, rising to crescendo when she turns her mind to the question.

_Yes._ It is the right thing to do. It is the only thing to do.

She builds the implant in one night, inserting the nanites and the electrodes. She begs a colleague to squeeze her surgery into their day, and forty eight hours later she’s under the knife.

The next day she’s running, with no pain, no stitches, no inflammation.

The nanites are working.

—

There are complications, but not the kind Angela was thinking of.

She sleeps on her stomach a lot those first few weeks, unused to the way her sheets feel against the cybernetics, jolted awake time and again by a soft touch that’s just so unexpected it sends a rush of adrenaline through her. It happens sometimes when she’s changing as well, but then she’s prepared for the shiver that runs through her as fabric brushes over her spine.

The electrodes work wonderfully. She wants her wings to be like breathing: able to be controlled when she wants, but otherwise involuntary, responding how she needs without conscious thought. In battle there is enough for her to keep track of without worrying that she’ll lose focus and have her wings fold in midair on her.

The only problem, however, is that maybe it works a little too well. Jesse sneaks up behind her before a media appearance and taps her on the shoulder, and when she jumps and tenses her wings fly open, sending titanium whipping across his jaw. “Serves you right, trying to scare me!” she scolds, even as she tilts his face up and inspects the damage.  
“Sorry Ange,” he says carefully, trying not to move his jaw. “Just make me look good for the cameras?”  
“Impossible,” Ana says as she walks by. “Look what she has to work with.”

The cause of the incident is seemingly forgotten by the others as Angela heals Jesse and he tries to salvage some of his dignity, but she remembers.

She remembers again when, during a transport home, Reinhardt finds her and sits by her, gently resting a hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right, little bird?” he asks, his voice a soft rumble. It’s unusual enough to hear him so quiet that it centers her attention on him instead of her swirling thoughts. She’d barely acknowledged his arrival. “Your wings are shivering,” he adds by way of explanation, and she’s suddenly aware of how tightly the Valkyrie wings are folded across her back, how tense her muscles are and how the wings shudder against their stops in response, trying to fold even closer.  
“I’m just thinking about Squad B,” she admits, seeing no alternative. Her views on fighting and Overwatch’s methods are well known, but she’s never wanted anyone to doubt her loyalty. And she’s always tried to hide just how much it hurts for her to lose even one patient; those she looks after have to trust her completely. To know that no matter what happens on the battlefield, that she is willing and able to respond and react. To save them, even when the person next to them dies. Even when it feels like a part of her has died with them.  
Because Angela can do that. Has done that. That doesn’t mean that anyone has to see the price she pays afterward, when all the weight that she shoves away in order to focus on the mission comes crashing down around her at the end. But a tense mind, a tense back, and a pair of wings have put that into jeopardy.

But Reinhardt only nods, squeezing her shoulder before releasing it. “We will raise a glass in their honor,” he says, and then leans back against the seat and closes his eyes.

When they get back to base and she removes the Valkyrie suit once again, she adjusts the sensitivity on the wings. They still flare up at times, or twitch and stretch in reaction to her thoughts, but it’s a more subtle effect. Like the implant in the first place, it’s a minor price to pay for what it allows her to accomplish.

She has Athena record the new calibration, the way Athena records multiple readings for her every night: vitals and blood levels and reaction times. Though Angela isn’t expecting anything to change for quite some time, it’s good to establish a base line. And Athena’s calm voice, reading off numbers in that same monotone that she uses to announce “everything in normal parameters, Doctor,” is soothing. Another confirmation that she’s not overlooking something through wishful thinking or willing blindness.

And finally, every night, the check that Athena doesn’t oversee. When Angela sits on her bed with no shirt or bra and checks every piece of the implant, the sensitive pads of her fingers feeling every ridge and smooth plane for cracks or deformities. She counts as she clears each piece, one through twelve, the final number a sigh as she lets her arm rest from being twisted behind herself.

She pulls on a loose shirt and sleeps on her back. She’s gotten used to it.

—

Years later and Athena’s voice is a memory, replaced by a little day calendar that’s filled with Angela’s neat script, charting not appointments and birthdays but the status of her cybernetics. There are similar calendars stored in a safe location, pieces of paper stapled into the back that list overall averages by month and any changes or significant outliers for the whole year. Despite whatever else happens in her life, the march of time does not, can not, stop, and though she goes to bed exhausted, though she skips meals and phone calls, there is not a blank page in any of those books.

She is in the desert in the Middle East, and though she is grateful for the dry heat compared to humid salt air, the sand does get everywhere. On particularly windy days she puts two strips of medical tape down her back to protect the implant, to prevent sand from crusting the edges and making every bend and turn into a gritty, crunchy feeling. Otherwise at night she spends a long time with fingers and a toothbrush (no matter where she goes or who searches her luggage, no one questions a spare toothbrush) cleaning out every junction point until the presence of sand no longer itches between her shoulders.

She is there when Winston contacts her, and she reluctantly agrees to return, if only for a short time, just long enough to make sure their medical section is set up properly.  
“Think about it,” Winston says when they’re saying goodbye. “Your voice is important. We’ve always needed your point of view too.”  
And she knows that, has always known that. It had been humbling and terrifying and exhausting to realize just _how much_ she made the others listen to her, how often her insistence on being heard shaped missions and priorities.

It’s not necessarily a weight that she wants to bear again. And yet she knows it’s an important role. One that someone has to fill, or else face the prospect that Overwatch will collapse again, before it ever restarts.

If it will save lives (and it will save lives), isn’t she obligated to at least try?

Angela gets her first surprise when she boards the plane for Gibraltar and finds herself seated next to Jesse McCree, though she has to look twice at the man in jeans and a plaid shirt with no hat anywhere to be seen. She leans closer to him, hiding her soft comment under the noise of fussing with the seat belt. “I didn’t know wanted men were allowed to fly.”  
“That’s why I have a fake ID and a world famous doctor to vouch for my good manners,” he shoots back, then laughs and hugs her gently. “It’s good to see you, Ange.”

They talk quietly, catching each other up on their lives during the flight and it’s too easy to fall back into the camaraderie, that closeness and pride to call these people her friends, even if she hadn’t always agreed with Overwatch, she could never bring herself to leave the people behind. It would’ve felt like abandoning them, like a betrayal. It had made what happened in Switzerland even more shocking.

They land and when the doors open, Jesse rises with a groan, rolling his shoulders and stretching as he steps into the aisle.  
“Getting soft?” she teases him as he pulls down their bags.  
“They don’t make these seats for people my size,” he complains good naturedly. “‘Sides, I’m not as young as I was. We didn’t all get to age so gracefully.” He winks at her.  
She smiles at him, but she’s suddenly aware of the plates that line her back, nanites hidden away inside, and feels a stir of disquiet in the back of her mind.

—

They step into the watchpoint and Angela immediately realizes just how much work there is to do in order to get Overwatch merely functioning again. Winston greets them, his smile as charmingly awkward as ever, and she can feel herself falling back in time yet again. She rests a hand on his arm as she used to, and the relief in his eyes makes her realize how lonely he’s been, and just how much he’s relying on her help.

She wants to harden her heart, to keep her distance and make it easy to leave here as she has planned. But she cannot, just like she’s never been able to.

(Sometimes she’s wondered if she just cares _too much_ , if she’s always been doomed to toe the line of professional detachment. During the worst nights, she wonders if a regular position in a hospital wouldn’t have eaten her alive, and if that’s why she finds herself on a battlefield year after year.)

“Is there a place where I can set up the Valkyrie? I want to make sure it arrived without damage.” she asks instead, and Winston nods, gesturing over his shoulder.  
“Just down that way to the left,” he says. “There should be someone there to help you if you need.”

After thanking him, she follows his direction, and it’s easy enough to find the hangar. She’s relieved to see that this place, at least, has been either maintained or restored: there are rows of strong lights overhead, the workbenches are clear of clutter, and tools are hung up in neat fashion across the wall behind them. She suspects that it’s Torbjörn’s handiwork, recalling how much he hated a messy shop, how he would chase off someone who thought to come in and borrow a tool just for a minute. So when she hears a clatter to one side, she turns, expecting to see the man she’s long considered a friend.

Instead she sees someone kneeling in front of an unfamiliar blue and gold metal suit. The armor reminds her of Reinhardt’s, all plating and full coverage, except that this one is smaller and much more streamlined.

And it has wings, she recognizes with a lurch in her stomach.

She looks again at the person - the woman - in front of the suit. Angela assumes she’s the user, given the carelessly confident way she’s manipulating the ankle joint, checking the articulation and freedom of movement. Her black hair hangs forward around her face, and the strong light glints off her prosthetic arm; the tank top she’s wearing shows off her broad shoulders and the muscles of her back. For the first time since Winston called, Angela feels like an intruder, a stranger, and she twists her hands together behind her back.

“Excuse me?”  
At her soft call, the woman puts the armor back onto the holding stand and tucks the pick she was using into a pocket, turning and rising as she wipes her hands off on a rag. “Yes?” she says, and then stops and stares, a lopsided smile slowly gracing her face.  
Angela is sure she’s staring as well. Fareeha has grown and changed so much since they last met; that flash of recognition wavers between seeing the teenager that she was and her mother whom she even more clearly resembles now. “Fareeha! What a pleasant surprise!” It is, she finds. That feeling of intrusion evaporates into nothing, replaced by the easiness of being back at Overwatch. It feels like a homecoming, she realizes with a start. Something that Switzerland could never offer her after the explosion, that she’d never found with all of her travels.  
“Dr. Ziegler, welcome back,” Fareeha replies warmly, clearly pleased at being remembered. Then she laughs. “If I even have the right to say so.”  
“Of course you do,” Angela says, remembering the stiff way Fareeha had acted before she’d joined the military, so determined to earn a spot in Overwatch. “Maybe I’ll even have you give me the grand tour.”  
“To get here you’ve probably walked through most of it.” Fareeha gestures to their surroundings with the rag, then seems to remember where they are. “Did you need something?”  
Angela nods and starts forward, heading to the empty stand near Fareeha’s. “I’m going to check that nothing on the Valkyrie suit got damaged in transit.”  
“So you’re staying?” When Angela looks at her in surprise, Fareeha shrugs. “Winston said you might not. Bringing the Valkyrie seems like more of a commitment.”

Ah. That explanation made sense. “As long as I’m here, I should be fully prepared to do what I can,” Angela says as she pulls out the special hardbound case that had been delivered here before her own arrival. “And I don’t like to leave it unguarded for too long.”  
“May I help?” Fareeha asks as Angela opens the case, and when she looks at the soldier she sees nothing but genuine interest and curiosity in her eyes.  
“If you’d like,” she offers, and Fareeha brightens, walking closer and watching carefully as Angela begins to bring out the various pieces of the suit. She asks before touching anything, with a glance if not always with words, and Angela is quietly relieved that helping is, in this case, only that, and not some excuse for Fareeha to try and do everything for her.

Soon they’re embroiled in a lively discussion of their suits and the various workings of them, and it quickly becomes clear that, though the Raptora is not something that Fareeha designed herself, it is something she knows inside and out. Angela supposes it makes sense, considering that Fareeha is currently the only one on hand to repair and maintain it, but there’s enough passion there that she’s convinced Fareeha has done all of this from the instant she received the Raptora.

When the Valkyrie is completely unpacked and stored safely on the stand, when Angela is finally satisfied that everything is in order, then they stand back and admire their handiwork.  
Fareeha leans over, whispering almost conspiratorially, “Want to give them a test run?”  
Truthfully, she’s been hoping that bringing the suit was being overly cautious, that she wouldn’t have to wear it while she’s here. Truthfully, she doesn’t want to form another bond that will keep her tied here.

Truthfully, she’s dying to know what it would feel like to really fly.

“Oh, alright,” she says, with a mock reluctance that Fareeha sees through in a heartbeat, and they split to their respective stands in order to change. Angela’s pulling on the flight suit when she hears Fareeha exclaim behind her.

“Aha!”  
And she looks over her shoulder at Fareeha staring at her back - at her cybernetics - with a grin on her face. “So _that’s_ how you control the wings.”  
Angela’s had several reactions to the implant, but never one quite like this. But the simple pleasure in Fareeha’s expression - the joy of figuring out a puzzle that Angela knows well - and the easy way she meets her eyes, innocent and happy, bring out the mischievous part of her. “Fareeha,” she demands, her tone low and almost dangerous. “Are you watching me change,” and she pauses, just enough to emphasize the point, just enough to get Fareeha’s eyes to widen slightly before she averts her gaze hastily and way too late. “Just to figure out how my suit works?” she finishes indignantly.

“I, um-“ Fareeha sputters for a moment, shoulders hunching forward, still studiously avoiding looking in Angela’s direction. “Yes?”  
It’s such an honest answer that Angela can’t help herself, laughing loudly before realizing that she’s being rude and stifling her giggles behind her hand. But Fareeha’s looking at her in relief, a sheepish grin on her face, and Angela shakes her head at her. “Next time just ask!”  
“Next time I will,” Fareeha promises before turning her full attention back to her suit.

They finish changing in comfortable silence, and they head outside together.

They fly, and it’s more wondrous than Angela had imagined. The wind in her hair and face, the view of the whole watchpoint and the ocean extending beyond, the sheer thrill that runs through her at each ascent leave her in a quiet awe that has her struggling to do more than just try to take each moment in, to memorize it as much as possible.

When they land and Fareeha pulls off her helmet, the same joy radiating from her, Angela looks into her warm brown eyes and knows she’s in trouble.

—

It isn’t a conscious decision, not at first. Angela spends her first few days at the watchpoint going through the supplies and writing out lists of needs and wants and nice to haves. She helps clean out rooms and prepare them for incoming agents. She updates Athena with all of the data from their years apart, and resumes their usual calibration sessions.

She makes meals alongside Jesse and Lena, and she flies with Fareeha.

She realizes it for the first time as she’s falling asleep, reviewing all the things she still needs to do.

She’s not planning on leaving.


	2. Chapter 2

Winston is delighted when Angela tells him that she’s staying. When he tells Athena to update the records to show that Chief Medical Officer Angela Ziegler is back, the doctor in question laughs and points out that she is, currently, the only medical staff that Overwatch has.

And for now, it’s enough. There’s only a handful of agents that have responded to the recall so far, and they’re not yet capable of putting a team in the field. Instead they gather information and resources, assist other agents who are trying to return, train together to learn how each person likes to do things, how they best move as a team. It means that there aren’t many injuries that she has to attend to.

There’s still _some_ of course, so Angela’s not startled when someone knocks on the doorway leading into their little med bay, where she’s putting away a newly arrived shipment of supplies. She turns and sees Fareeha standing there, both hands raised in a gesture of peacekeeping.  
“I’m alright,” she says, even as Angela scoffs and beckons her forward.  
“Because healthy people visit me all the time,” Angela says, and Fareeha raises an eyebrow at her tone, her hands going back to her sides.  
“We might have to change that, then,” she says, then prevents Angela from responding to that astonishing statement by turning her left arm to expose a long scratch down the side of her prosthetic, the base metal shining through. “This is why I’m here; Reinhardt insisted I come see you and I agreed mostly to calm him down.”

“Calm him down?” Angela repeats, taking Fareeha’s arm and examining it more closely. It seems to be just surface damage, nothing actually penetrating through the prosthetic, though she runs her fingertips over it just to be sure.  
“I… might’ve been swearing a bit. It stung like hell when it happened.”  
“And what exactly happened?”  
Fareeha grins, triumphant at the memory, then obviously tries to school her features into something more somber. “He was having problems with one of the rockets on his hammer. We fixed it.”  
Angela sighs, knowing too well what sort of reckless enthusiasm usually takes place in the workshops. “I can only imagine,” she murmurs. “We have some repair compound for things like this, and I’ll order some more.” Turning the prosthetic over and looking more, she notes all the small dings, the grazes, the sandpapered scrapes. “I hope you take better care of yourself than this,” she continues, half to herself. “How long have you had it?”

Angela’s only wondering how long it takes Fareeha to accumulate so much damage, but when silence meets her question she realizes how else it could be interpreted. “I didn’t mean-“  
“The battle of Asyut,” Fareeha interrupts calmly, as if that’s all that needs to be said. And it is. Angela remembers the reports.  
“You were there?”  
“I was.” Fareeha smiles, but it’s a tilted little thing even as she wiggles her prosthetic fingers at Angela. “Parts of me still are.”  
Though her fingers continue to rest lightly on Fareeha’s wrist, Angela looks away to hide her grimace. She’s grown unused to the dark humor that soldiers liked to use about their injuries.  
“Hey.” Fareeha’s right hand covers Angela’s, getting her to look back up at the soldier. “Sorry.”  
Angela shakes her head. “Don’t be. I was just remembering how much I wished I’d been there.”

She’d been tied up in yet another crisis, another camp, with more wounded and lost than she could really handle. In the end, despite all the breakthroughs and awards, she’s only one person, only able to be in one place, accomplish only so much with her two hands. What use was there in being called a genius then?

“They used some of your tech,” Fareeha says suddenly. “Saved the rest of my arm. I meant to try and contact you, but…” she trails off, frowning at the floor. Angela can only imagine what Fareeha must have thought; she’d been so determined to prove herself away from her mother and the rest of Overwatch. Ana had called her proud and stubborn for it, and maybe that had pushed Fareeha further away, afraid that calling in a time of need would be seen as a failure.  
“I would’ve loved to hear from you,” Angela reassures her softly, hoping it’s the right thing to say. “But thank you. That helps to hear.” And it does. It’s less about Fareeha’s individual case - though she’s quietly grateful that the woman in front of her benefited - and more the reminder that there are others out there that she’s helped, even if she’s never met them.

Fareeha’s fingers - prosthetic and not alike - tighten around her hands, and Angela looks up into her eyes, soft with an absolute understanding. “Thank you, Dr. Ziegler,” she says, and for once Angela feels like she may have done enough.

—

Training runs do eventually give way to actual missions, and they learn who they really are on the battlefield. Lena is as fast and as chatty as in training, and Reinhardt still roars with laughter, but Jesse and Fareeha both sink into themselves. The easy teasing from around the watchpoint is nowhere to be seen in their stern professionalism. Jesse at least will still occasionally say or do something for the dramatic flair of it, his way of burning off the stress of a passing moment. But Fareeha, Angela quickly discovers, is almost completely stoic while on mission. She can be coaxed into some joking while they prepare or on the transport, and she weathers the others antics with a half smile, but it seems as if in the field the suit weighs three times as much as it should. As if their chances for success and survival depend entirely on her own shoulders.

Angela worries for her. She’s seen too many people put that sort of burden on themselves, only to be consumed by it. And didn’t she herself suffer after Switzerland, thinking of all the things that she could - should - have done?

It had taken her years to accept that she isn’t a miracle worker, that she was incapable of saving an entire organization by herself. Though she knows that she will never be able to fully absolve herself, the weight of it is easier to bear.

She and Fareeha have always prepared and changed together, with the Valkyrie and Raptora suits next to each other on identical stands in the hangar. After training runs they always check on the suits together, laughing over their colleagues while they make their adjustments. But Angela’s always finished first, not having to refuel or reload like Fareeha does, and so she’s left with a wave. Now, after missions, she finds herself lingering, talking quietly about unrelated things or her research, or asking questions about the Raptora and Helix. She sits perched on a stool, staying nearby as Pharah relaxes back into Fareeha.

She doesn’t question the warmth she feels when Fareeha finally laughs, the tension in her shoulders easing. After all, Angela’s responsible for the well being of the team, and sometimes that means more than the physical.

—

This new after battle routine is interrupted by a piece of debris that gashes her temple, that lets blood soak through her hair and dribble down her cheek before the nanites close the wound. They are less effective at easing the concussion that throbs through her skull, and when they reach base Fareeha gently shoos her away from the Valkyrie once it’s back on the stand.  
“I’ve seen you go through it enough times; I’ll be fine. Any questions and I’ll leave it for you,” she reassures Angela, a hand on her shoulder guiding her toward the door. “Just don’t leave it with me too long or I’ll paint it to match mine.”  
“You wouldn’t dare,” Angela says, the pain sapping the bite from her retort, and she appreciates the way Fareeha softens her laughter for her aching head.

There’s not much that she can do, however. The nanites in her implant are an earlier build, and she doesn’t like to introduce new ones to her system. Sometimes the side effects of doing so are… unpleasant.

So instead she sits - not entirely trusting her legs for this - in the shower, careful fingers combing through her hair and washing the dried blood down the drain. Instead she dictates her notes from the battle to Athena rather than typing them herself; she hates to bother the AI with this, but her eyes can’t stand the bright screens for long.

Instead she goes to the med bay and gently pricks her finger, squeezing a few bright red drops into the machine that she designed for her own use, and listens to Athena’s calm voice telling her that all parameters are within normal. She wipes the blood away and the nanites have already taken care of such a small injury; imagining them rushing through her blood makes her head swim, and she leans against an exam table as she fights off a wave of dizziness.

Normally she would go to her own room for this next part, but Angela already knows that this will not be easy, will likely be a struggle that she cannot simply push through. Slowly, trying not to jostle her head too much, she pulls her shirt off and starts to reach around her back to the implant. But the angle, always awkward, makes her blood roar in her ears and nausea race through her stomach, and she grits her teeth and straightens until the sensations fade.

She cannot go to bed without checking the implant - the thought makes her stomach roll again until she pushes it away. Maybe she can rig something up with cameras, get Athena to assist her, but that would involve a lot of set up and the irritation of screens and she feels exhausted just contemplating it.

Or. Or. She could enlist someone’s help. Who does she trust to do it right?

Her mind instantly goes to Fareeha. The soldier may be a little reckless when it comes to her own prosthetic, but she’s had years of experience with it, and clearly knows what damage is important and what is superficial. Fareeha, who is calm and serious and highly capable even in the midst of a battle. Fareeha, who saw how badly she was hurting and helped without ever implying that Angela couldn’t handle everything on her own if she wanted.

Fareeha, who first saw the implant and knew exactly what it was for, and why Angela had to do it. Exactly how Angela had seen Fareeha’s arm and had never asked why she didn’t just accept the honorable discharge.

“Athena, could you please ask Fareeha to come here?”  
“Of course, Doctor.”

She removes her bra because they’ll need the strap out of the way, and because the thought of removing it in front of Fareeha seems too intimate, sends goosebumps rolling down her arms. Sooner than she thought, however, there’s someone knocking at the door, and Angela takes up her shirt and holds it to her chest. “Fareeha?”  
“You wanted to see me?”  
Angela turns her back to the door, then takes a breath to steady herself. She’s never asked someone to do this for her. “Come in.”  
She can hear the door open, and then the sudden halt of Fareeha’s steps as she sees how Angela is waiting for her. The door clicks softly shut in the silence.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Angela says quickly to fill that void, but her confidence isn’t helped by the way her head spins when she tries to look over her shoulder at Fareeha. “I usually inspect my back each night and my head just can’t handle it right now. I’d rather not skip the exam, especially not after a mission. Would you…?” she stumbles to a halt, the words having rushed out of her without much thought. Maybe it’s a good thing she can’t see Fareeha’s expression.

“Sure.” At least her voice sounds certain, and her steps mark her progress closer. “What exactly do you need me to do?”  
“Check for anything cracked or damaged mainly, but let me know if you see something that doesn’t look right. According to your judgment,” Angela adds, hoping that’s enough of an explanation. She’s done this for so long, she just knows how it should feel under her fingers.  
Fareeha takes such a long time to reply that Angela is about to prompt her before she finally speaks. “I’ll have to touch you to do this properly.”  
“I know,” Angela says. “That’s fine.” She drops her chin, staring at the edge of the table, trying to compromise between shielding her eyes from the bright lights and the way the dizziness gets worse when she closes her eyes.

But Fareeha seems to take that as a signal as well, and with a rustle of fabric as Angela’s only warning, she rests two fingers at the base of Angela’s neck, right above the implant. Angela takes a deep breath, but when she doesn’t say anything, Fareeha runs her fingers over the first plate, slowly and with gentle pressure.

And, oh, it’s so different than when she does it for herself.

She almost wants to grip the exam table to steady herself, but her hands twist tighter in the shirt that she’s holding to her chest. If the concussion wasn’t throbbing through her body and upsetting her stomach, the sensation might actually be pleasant. Even so, Fareeha’s touch still tingles through her, sending a wave of warmth spreading out through her shoulders and down her back, soothing away some of the tension radiating from her head.

As Fareeha moves from the first plate to the next, Angela breathes out, a bit shakily. “One.” It’s part of the routine, and she needs that comfort right now, even as Fareeha’s fingers hesitate before deciding that Angela wasn’t objecting and moving on. Her fingers get most of the way over the plate before they pause.  
“There’s a small scratch here,” Fareeha reports quietly, her voice calm. “But it looks weathered. Old?”  
“Yes.” She’d spent long hours worrying at it when it’d first happened, tracing the slight divot over and over again. It had taken her a couple of weeks to get used to it, but now it’s a familiar landmark on her nightly checks.

Fareeha’s fingers dip downward, clearing the scratched plate, and Angela nods to herself as she says, “Two.”

This time Fareeha doesn’t falter, and this time when she’s finished, Angela’s only had time to draw in a breath to speak when Fareeha’s voice interrupts her. “Three.”

Closing her eyes for a moment, despite how it makes the world swirl, Angela allows herself to relax fully, grateful for Fareeha’s unspoken understanding. Fareeha continues to trace the lines and planes of the implant, mapping them out in a way only Angela ever has, and maybe that should make her feel vulnerable. But Fareeha feels safe. In the warmth of her voice as she counts off each number, in the steadiness of her touch, in her soft laughter when she finishes and says, “green across the board” in the same way she sometimes does when checking the Raptora.

“Thank you,” Angela says, though it feels inadequate.  
“If you need anything else, just have Athena get me again,” Fareeha tells her, and Angela risks twisting to look over her shoulder. Fareeha’s smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes - she seems more worried than she’s trying to let on. “I’ve dealt with a few concussions, so I remember some of the protocols.”  
“I will,” she promises, then turns back to the table.

Fareeha rests her hand on her shoulder for a moment, before her footsteps head for the door, which clicks shut behind her.

—

Angela never really likes it when someone calls her a genius. It’s hard to voice her objections, since it often seems to come across as false modesty - it’s true that she learns quickly, that she remembers stuff she read six years ago as easily as something she read yesterday, that she makes connections and leaps of logic without really being able to unravel her train of thought and exactly how she came to her conclusions. It’s true that many of the things she does just work - look at how the implant has succeeded.

But it’s an ability that she was simply born with, no matter how grateful she is for it. What Angela values, what she hopes others value equally, is the work. The things that she does. The hours that she puts in and all of the failures that the world doesn’t get to see. She values actions, values the time she’s spent in refugee camps and disaster areas more than any time in the lab, no matter what breakthrough she’s discovered.

She values the work of her hands, and maybe that’s what draws her to Fareeha.

Because Fareeha is a brilliant tactician, and the others quickly let her take control of mission planning (Winston with a visible look of relief) when they discover it. She’s quick and decisive and seems to understand and anticipate with an almost supernatural speed. Angela’s convinced that Overwatch, with such a small team, would be struggling without Fareeha’s guidance.

And yet, Fareeha steadfastly refuses to take credit for it, deflecting back to Winston as the de facto leader or the efforts of the group. Fareeha loves to be in the workshop, loves to tinker with the Raptora and get it running just a little smoother, make the engines just that much more efficient. She delights in the challenges that others bring her, even when she can’t find the solution that they’re hoping for.

She’s so serious on mission because she cares about what she does, about how she represents herself, her country, and Overwatch. She cares about protecting others, and minimizing damage, and saving the world. She works out and trains and improves the Raptora because she enjoys them and because they are important to what she does. And Fareeha values the work that she does.

Angela is a genius who remembers just about everything, including the little admiring glances that Fareeha sends her way when she thinks Angela isn’t paying attention or the way her expression warms when they greet each other.

Fareeha is insightful and seems to know exactly what to say to get Angela to blush. She’s quick with her words, which she uses just as often to make terrible puns as to bring that heat to Angela’s cheeks.

She realizes that Fareeha’s flirting with her at about the same time that she realizes that she really enjoys the flirting. Even if half the time it ends with her all flustered and hushing Fareeha as the soldier laughs. Until the time that Fareeha says something - Angela forgets what it was as soon as she looks into Fareeha’s confident smirk, the _and what are you going to do about it_ dare implied by the set of her shoulders and her bright eyes.

Angela’s a genius. She sees, she analyzes, she draws a conclusion, and she acts, because there’s no witty repartee for Fareeha to use when Angela pushes her against a wall and kisses her. There’s no joking in the way Fareeha grabs her hips and pulls her closer, no room left for banter on her lips.

At least, not until fingers sneak under her shirt and brush up along her spine, drawing a gasp from her as she arches into Fareeha’s touch, trying to draw out the sensation radiating through her body and spiking through her chest and stomach. When Fareeha’s hand falls away, she feels the loss of her touch as a blow.  
She opens her eyes, worried only because she’s had lovers previously that were afraid of the implant, afraid of hurting her, who would draw their hand back the instant they touched it, apologizing even when they never had cause to.  
But Fareeha is watching her with that confidence just oozing from her, and as much as Angela wants to roll her eyes at such blatant self-satisfaction, she’s relieved to discover that Fareeha isn’t afraid, was in fact trying to get such a reaction.

“Do that again,” she says, not even caring about how breathless she sounds. She _feels_ breathless as anticipation races through her as Fareeha’s hand comes to rest on the small of her back, her thumb tracing idle circles on her skin.  
Laughing, Fareeha doesn’t let her touch do more than come teasingly close, leaving Angela to shiver in each passing wake, her breath catching time and again until she leans forward and lightly presses her teeth to Fareeha’s neck, turning that laughter into something softer.  
“Now, Fareeha,” Angela demands, and when Fareeha complies by slowly dragging two fingers up each side of the cybernetics, Angela feels like they’re flying.

—

Dating Fareeha doesn’t change too much. The Valkyrie and Raptora still stand side by side; both of them are too professional to turn gearing up for battle into something less serious than it must be, both too focused on what needs to be done to tease. But Angela gets a kiss on the forehead before she puts on her halo; Fareeha a kiss on the cheek as the last thing before she pulls on her helmet.

Fareeha still spends most of her time in the workshop and Angela in the med bay, but they find more reasons to overlap, to visit, to share some moment or another.

But the biggest change is an important one, a nightly one, because now Fareeha inspects the implant just as often as Angela does. Some nights Angela likes giving herself into the care of her lover, likes the smoothly confident way Fareeha’s fingers trace each piece. She takes the task on always with a quiet seriousness, knowing how important it is to Angela, never flirting until they clear it and then she’ll kiss Angela’s shoulder as another signal that they’re done. And then Angela can fall asleep in Fareeha’s arms, cherished and warm.

One morning she wakes that same way and, instead of rising immediately as she always does, she snuggles in closer to Fareeha, nuzzles her nose into Fareeha’s shoulder. She’d been up late the night before, chasing inspiration, but her internal clock only knows that this is when she gets up every morning, not that she only came to bed three hours ago.

Fareeha, however, does know that, considering the way she’d woken up when Angela slipped under the covers. She wakes again now, pulling Angela closer, holding her more tightly that usual. “Go back to sleep,” she urges. “Sleep in with me.”  
“I should get up,” Angela murmurs, but for once it’s a protest that wants to be overwritten, heavy with a reluctance that invites opposition.   
And Fareeha, the tactician, cannot let such an opportunity slip away from her. Her index and middle fingers find the top plate of the implant and trace it, sure and deliberate, so familiar that Angela can feel her eyes pull shut with a sudden heaviness.  
“One,” Fareeha says softly, the breath of the word ghosting over Angela’s cheek.  
Her fingers find the next one, lingering over the old scratch as Angela decides that maybe she really doesn’t have to get up so soon and lets the morning go, relaxing as sleep rises up over her.  
Fareeha chuckles, her lips brushing Angela’s forehead. “Two.”

She probably goes through the rest, but Angela never even hears the three.


End file.
